HARD TO REMEMBER

Dear Spike:

It got to the point that I was afraid to take you in my arms.

I don’t know what it was with you and I this evening, but we just didn’t seem to be getting along.

Your mother would take you, rock you, soothe you and put you to sleep. Then she’d place your tiny body in my arms.

And you’d cry.

And cry.

And scream. And flail. And cough and gag and spit up and cry some more until I gave in and handed you back to your mom.

It happened first when I got home from work. Then again an hour later. And again and again.

But she finally fell asleep, about an hour ago, and as she closed her eyes, you opened yours. You took one look at me and screamed like Janet Leigh.

More crying. And flailing. And coughing and gagging and spitting up. Until finally, blessedly finally, you passed out in my arms.

You’re now curled up — legs tucked under your body like a funny little frog, arms wrapped around my chest, head tucked into my shoulder — sleeping so quietly that I keep checking to make sure you’re breathing.

And it’s getting hard to remember why I didn’t want to hold you.

Love,
dad